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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23214580">As the World Gives</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebus/pseuds/Phoebus'>Phoebus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>John 14:27 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Coming Out, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modern Era, Religion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:22:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23214580</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebus/pseuds/Phoebus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Solomon goes home. John comes out. </p><p>"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."<br/>-John 14:27</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>John 14:27 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Terror Bingo (2019)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>As the World Gives</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/15sonoXdBPeSDS9tvMBMN3?si=maeYn_ERSYeQdLqGHQ6uoQ">themed playlist for your listening pleasure</a>
</p><p>This is part 2/3 in the series. </p><p>Enjoy, and stay safe out there.</p><p>(Terror Bingo prompt: A Friendly Face)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John’s knife scraped his porcelain plate, producing an uncomfortably loud screeching noise that made everyone at the dinner table look at him. Blushing, he mumbled an apology, the veal lying heavy in his stomach. </p><p>“As I was saying,” his father went on, “Aisling and Marcus’ wedding is next week, so don’t forget to send them a card. We don’t want Mrs Browne lording this over us at the next board meeting, it’ll be bad enough with the merger she keeps going on about.”</p><p>Chewing slowly and taking sips of his red wine to pass the time, John took a sneaky look at his watch. It had only been an hour yet, not nearly late enough for him to be able to make his excuses and go back to his flat, where he could either watch TV with Ned or just have an early night in. He was so tired lately, exhausted, really.</p><p>It wasn’t that he didn’t like his family. They had supported him throughout his time studying Maths at college. His dad was the one who got him his current job at the accounting firm, and he was more than grateful for that. He knew that all of that wasn’t a given, and he never wanted to be ungrateful. It certainly wasn’t a hardship to meet up with siblings once a week to have dinner with their father.</p><p>It was just that most of the time, when he was with them he felt like an outsider, like an extra in a movie he hadn’t been given the script to.</p><p>“Talking about weddings,” his older sister Mary piped up, “do you remember the Kerrys from next door? I met their youngest doing my shopping two days ago, Ryan. He’s engaged to be married, his fiancé is some bloke from London, one of those city banker types, he showed me a picture on his phone.”</p><p>John let out an uncomfortable cough, a piece of broccoli neatly stuck in his windpipe. </p><p>Reaching over to clap him on the back, his brother Lewis looked at their sister with interest. “Little Ryan? I never knew he was gay. John, you played with him when you were wee. Did you know?”</p><p>Still wheezing from nearly choking to death on some vegetables, John reached for his wine glass like a parched man. After a generous gulp, he looked up to find everyone’s eyes trained on him.</p><p>“Oh, erm. I barely remember him, I mean, we were just kids. And-,” he set on, swallowing the last remnants of deadly broccoli, “I don’t think you can just know like that if someone is, you know, gay, can you?”</p><p>He didn’t want to phrase it like a question, but that’s the way it came out.</p><p>Nobody said anything for a moment. Then-<br/>
“Certainly, certainly, hm. Anyone for more wine?” his father asked, picking up the nearly empty bottle.<br/>
John let out a breath he didn’t even notice he had been holding in. Their pleasant chatter resumed, but he couldn’t bring himself to participate in their talk about work and city council meetings and older relatives. He had been living like this for so many years now, but it was like something had snapped, some lever switched. John knew it couldn’t go on like this. Something had to change. What he couldn’t predict was whether it would change for the better or worse.</p><p>___________________________</p><p>The ding of the doorbell made Solomon turn around, interrupting his attempts to put some sort of order to Rasheed’s haphazard array of magazines, newspapers and chocolate bars. </p><p>The customer, who was wearing the typical combination of waxed jacket and colourful floral patterned scarf seen on middle aged ladies up and down the country, walked down the single aisle with a determined step and grabbed her essentials before throwing them onto Solomon’s counter. Butter, a carton of eggs, and a packet of crisps. </p><p>Before Solomon could ring up her items, she quickly snatched one of the magazines decrying something or other about the royal family in bright letters, along with questionable dieting advice and recipes for the perfect rhubarb crumble your loved ones will just adore.</p><p>“Will that be all, then?” Solomon asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He’d originally aimed for pleasant, but sometimes you have to take what you can get.</p><p>The woman stared at him for a moment too long, a strange look in her eyes.</p><p>Solomon sighed internally. He got that sometimes. It was usually either his build or the scars that made people look. Lately, more often than not, it was his expression. What had his little sister called it? Like a basset hound in a hail storm.</p><p>“Solomon? Solomon Tozer?”</p><p>He glanced up. “Yes?” he answered hesitantly.</p><p>The lady’s face broke out into a smile. “Almost didn’t recognise you there! I thought, oh, that looks almost like the Tozer lad, did I, and there you are.”</p><p>He blinked at her.</p><p>“Oh, but you probably have no idea who I am, do you? Last time I talked to you, you were just a wee little thing hiding behind one of your sisters, mind.”</p><p>Solomon grabbed the magazine, hurriedly trying to find the price.</p><p>“I’d never have known you all grown up like that, big strong fella like you! But I was visiting your mother just last month and she has this lovely picture of you over the mantle, you ken how she is, with all the portraits of your siblings. I know her from the women’s club, you see, that’s how I know your mother. Wonderful lady, you tell her I said hello, won’t you?”</p><p>“Five fifty, please.”</p><p>Puttering about her handbag, the woman went on. “Now, weren’t you in the army or some such thing? I’m sure your mother told me about it, she must be so proud of you. Are you on leave then?”</p><p>She handed over the money. Solomon gave back the change. </p><p>She looked at him expectantly, but when he didn’t show any inclination to answer her, she bagged her groceries and left the corner shop, muttering something under her breath.</p><p>She might even complain to his mum about what happened, Solomon thought. </p><p>He didn’t care. Or rather, he felt like that was something he should care about, or would have cared about at some point. He just didn’t have the energy anymore.</p><p>He was always tired now, but not in the way he felt tired after a hard workout, his muscles burning and sweat running down his body. This tiredness was like a fog, like cotton balls filling up his head, making it hard to move, and even harder to think.</p><p>No use in being a marine when you’re like that. No use in anything, really. He could barely keep it together enough to work this crappy job his friend Rasheed had gotten him, working the counter at a neighbourhood corner store four days a week.</p><p>He couldn’t just stay at home and do nothing, though. It was bad enough that he had to move back in with his family; he didn’t want to be a financial burden as well. His mother had more than enough on her plate, working and raising his younger siblings, and there were Charlie’s medical transition costs to consider.</p><p>No, this was the least he could do.</p><p>He wasn't a marine anymore. He was not sure what he was now. </p><p>He watched the minutes tick by on the digital clock by the door. Another half hour to go, then he could go back home. Just in time to tuck the youngest into bed, at least they'd be happy to see him. </p><p>No, Solomon thought, he was being unfair. His family loved him, they were all glad to have him back. </p><p>That was exactly the problem, they'd take him in even if he was a burden on them. </p><p>He'd go back home and talk to Charlie about their favourite video games and what they're up to in school, have a beer, help out his mum with the dishes and go to bed early. </p><p>He was sleeping a lot recently, except when he had to. It felt like he could just spend the entire day snoozing while he couldn't close his eyes during the night. </p><p>There were things hiding in the dark that he wasn't ready to face yet, sharing his old childhood bedroom with his younger brother. He didn't need to see Solomon like that. It was bad enough that he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes, the scars. </p><p>He was glad that they'd moved to Edinburgh a few years prior, at least he didn't have to deal with the horrific idea of running into old school mates of his. Not like they were doing all that well for themselves either probably, but still. He knew he fucked up. </p><p>Big Sol Tozer, enlisting for the marines as soon as he could. What a hero, what a proper bloke. You'd love to get a pint with Sol, he's so down to earth, he's a real man, he's got some stories to tell you. </p><p>What a glorious future the recruitment posters had promised him. </p><p>And here he was now, 27 years old and moving back in with his mother, his head all messed up. Big fucking hero, he was. </p><p>_______________________________</p><p>John ran his sweaty hand through his hair for the tenth time, shifting from one foot to the other on the modest stone stairs leading up to the church. The Reverend was running a few minutes late; he had agreed to meet up here once John was done at work. </p><p>John swallowed a persistent lump in his throat. This was where he had been baptized. Where he had spent countless Sunday mornings, as long as he can remember. </p><p>This was where a six year old John had been so certain he would get married one day, the whole parish standing behind him, watching with pride and goodwill as he would take a beautiful woman to be his lawfully wedded wife. His parents would be sitting in the front row, his mother beaming and his father nodding his approval.</p><p>This was where a fifteen year old John had realised he would never get married, feeling like he had been marked plainly and openly, a pariah for all to see. </p><p>A hurried looking man came jogging around the corner, halting in front of him and taking a moment to hold on to the railing, clearly having to catch his breath. </p><p>“I’m so sorry, lad! I was over at the Scott’s place, you see, it was Darlene’s eightieth birthday and you know how they are. Couldn’t say no to a third piece of cake, no matter what I tried. They’d have me ordering new robes every fortnight, they would,” Reverend Murray rambled, only interrupted by his own wheezing. </p><p>He was a portly man in his mid-sixties, with a head as bald and shiny as a bowling ball, a bushy moustache, and a quick smile, giving him the appearance of a particularly friendly walrus. </p><p>He had been at this church since before John was born, and would possibly be here long after they all had died, or at least that’s how it seemed to John, who had gotten so used to the Reverend’s long-winded sermons, his penchant for difficult choir pieces, and his insistence on learning the name of every member of his parish. </p><p>“Come in, come in! No use standing outside here and letting you wait any longer, poor boy. Would you care for some tea?”</p><p>John nodded his head yes. No matter how old he was, Murray could make him feel like he was still a quick-tempered twelve-year-old, desperate to prove himself and find his place in the church.</p><p>Murray led the two of them to the small room beside the altar, where John had spent many a Sunday afternoon with his Bible study group. </p><p>His back to John and rummaging around the run-down kitchenette, he got out two pyramid tea bags from the cupboard and busied himself putting on the kettle.</p><p>“So what brings you here, then? Your email sounded mighty cryptic, if I may say so. Is everything alright at home? How are you kids holding up?”</p><p>John swallowed, sitting down on one of the ugly wooden chairs and toying with a rogue thread that had come loose at the edge of his sleeve.</p><p>“Everything is fine, I think. I mean, everyone is healthy. Dad is getting ready for his retirement soon, and David is really enjoying himself on his gap year in Australia. I think he might emigrate for good, become a sheep farmer or something,” John tried to joke, not meeting Murray’s eyes when the Reverend sat down two steaming cups of tea in front of them before settling opposite him, softly cursing his achy back.</p><p>“Aye, but you’re not meeting with me to talk about your brother’s sheep, are you now?” Murray asked, his tone carefully subdued, as if any loud noise could spook John like a skittish horse.</p><p>John didn’t know where to begin. This man had known him his entire life. Even before he was born, Reverend Murray was there to pray with his mum for her baby. </p><p>“Have I ever seemed-” John began, speaking slowly, the words coming to him in bits and pieces, “have I ever seemed different to you?”</p><p>“Different? Different how?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Just different from the others? I mean from the other boys in the parish when I was younger, or even now? Do I-, am I-, I don’t know how to ask this, Reverend.” John gave up, defeated by his own inability to put words to his struggle.</p><p>Reverend Murray didn’t respond immediately, taking a sip of his tea before humming thoughtfully.</p><p>“Well, you were always a special child. Headstrong, certainly, you knew what you were about and you didn’t suffer fools gladly. I clearly remember you questioning my reading of Deuteronomy in Bible study when you were still just wee, thought your poor dad was going to have a heart attack!” he chuckled.</p><p>John, recalling the incident in cruel detail, felt his face heat up.</p><p>“Yeah, about that-”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry yourself now! I always had a soft spot for you. Not everyone takes to the Church’s teachings as well as you did at so young an age. Mind you, you would have made a fine Reverend yourself, believe me.”</p><p>John studied the contents of his mug intently. “I don’t think I would.”</p><p>Murray raised his eyebrows curiously. “Oh?” he prompted.</p><p>John could feel his heartbeat increasing, the edges of his vision fading in and out. He blinked several times in quick succession, attempting in vain to get it together.</p><p>“Are you feeling alright, John? You look a bit peaky.”</p><p>Running a digit over a crack in the rim of his half-empty cup, John tried to gather his thoughts enough to come up with what he had planned to say.</p><p>Writing an email to Murray in the early hours of the morning after lying awake all night, tossing and turning, had seemed like the only way he could force himself to actually come here and speak with him.</p><p>Now, faced with the man in question, he found it nigh impossible to get out the words.</p><p>“I’m healthy,” he forced out, feeling even guiltier over asking him to meet and then not being able to tell Murray the truth.</p><p>“Aye, you’re healthy. But that’s not what I’m asking. What’s wrong, lad?”</p><p>John emptied his tea. If he couldn’t say it now, he would never do it.</p><p>“I’ve met someone.”</p><p>That was the truth, although not the whole truth. Sure, his night with Solomon had changed some things, but ultimately it only cemented what he had already known deep down. He hadn’t come here to talk about Solomon, he had come to talk about himself.</p><p>Yet for some reason, he found it easier to frame it as a question of relationships than an issue of his own character, his own being. If he talked about Solomon, he didn’t have to face that the real offense lay within him.</p><p>Murray motioned for him to continue, a reassuring smile on his face.</p><p>John coughed, his throat dry as if he hadn’t just downed half a cup of tea. He had to begin a few times before he could even get out a sound that resembled language.</p><p>“His name is Solomon.”<br/>
And there it was. No going back now. </p><p>John could feel the change like a physical cut through his life. Until today he had been John Irving. Now he was John, the gay one. </p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, desperate not to allow the tears threatening to fall from his lashes to embarrass him even more.</p><p>Murray was quiet for an uncharacteristically long time. John didn’t dare look up.</p><p>“Solomon, huh? The king of Israel, son of David. Now there’s a name you don’t hear often. Jewish lad?”</p><p>John raised his gaze in surprise, thrown off by the unexpected reaction.</p><p>“Uhm,” he stuttered, “I, I don’t know. I guess I haven’t asked him yet.”</p><p>He was momentarily chastised by the realisation that he didn’t know a lot about Solomon, basically nothing at all. He had never asked him about his family.</p><p>“Reverend, I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>And there was the crux of the matter. He was thrown into a life he never prepared for, and now he had to live as this new John. He felt like a sailor unable to find his land legs after months at sea, stumbling from one day into the next.</p><p>Murray sighed. “I can’t tell you what to do. That, you have to find out yourself, just like the rest of us. But I can try and ease some of the fears you might have.”</p><p>John’s eyebrows creased in the middle of his forehead.</p><p>“Oh, don’t pull that face, boy. It’s not all doom and gloom. No one in the parish will hate you. Mind, they’ll take their time getting used to this news, but you’re one of our own, always have been. They will come around. Your family, too. I’ve known them since before you or any of your siblings were born. I knew your mother well, and I know your father. I can’t promise you that there won’t be arguments and hurt feelings, but I know that they love you unconditionally. Keep in mind that the Lord doesn’t give us more than we can carry.”</p><p>At the mention of his family, John could feel that he was losing the battle against his tears, eyes burning no matter how hard he blinked. </p><p>“But what about God? What about Leviticus, and Romans, and Sodom and Gomorrah, and Corinthians, and-”</p><p>“Hush now, don’t presume you know the Lord’s way better than He does. He made you to his liking, did he not? At the end of the day, you are part of his Creation. I say, you’re a good one, John. Every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit.”</p><p>“By their fruit you will recognize them,” John sniffled, his voice quiet and uncertain.</p><p>“Ah, of course you know your Matthew. Always said you were one of my best students, didn’t I?”</p><p>“But that part is about prophets. I’m not a prophet,” John said, somewhat stumped.</p><p>“That you know of,” Reverend Murray quipped, patting his shoulder good-naturedly, his bushy moustache twitching with mirth. “Seriously, John, I don’t know what I can say to you that will assure your fears. If I’m being honest, I don’t know myself what to do here. All I’m certain of is that you are your own man, making your own decisions. And I trust you to have a good head on your shoulders.”</p><p>He collected their mugs, both empty now, and stood up to put them into the kitchen sink.</p><p>“Not to put you on the spot, but you know what Matthew has to say about judging others, don’t you?”</p><p>John didn’t have to contemplate the answer, the verse coming to him immediately. He’d spent many late hours looking at it in his mother’s old Bible, tracing a finger over her annotations written in fading pencil. </p><p>“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”</p><p>“Aye,” Murray agreed while filling the sink with hot water from the rusty tap, “and that’s how I hold it, too. The way I see it, you know yourself. I’m not gonna condemn you or give you absolution. You can go to a Catholic if you want to confess your sins.”</p><p>John huffed a laugh. His cheeks were still wet and felt faintly sticky, but the tears had stopped.</p><p>“Can’t do any of those things. But if you need an open ear to talk to, or spiritual advice, that’s what I’m here for. And not only I am, John. God listens when you pray, don’t forget that. Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.”</p><p>“That’s Matthew, again, right?”</p><p>“The man had many smart things to say, didn’t he? Alright now, up you get, I still have another round of visitations before my day is done,” Murray said gruffly, but his eyes were looking on John kindly. </p><p>Standing up on embarrassingly wobbly legs, John put out his hand for the Reverend, who instead pulled him into a quick but hearty embrace, patting his back with his meaty hands.</p><p>“You’re okay, son. You’re okay.”<br/>
John let out another teary laugh, clinging onto Reverend Murray for just a moment longer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part 3 coming soon to a theatre near you.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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